


The Flu of 1962

by beforetheymakemerun



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforetheymakemerun/pseuds/beforetheymakemerun
Summary: Fic inspired by modern times, because I'm stuck inside and felt like writing some Mick/Keith!It's 1962 and Mick, Keith, and Brian live in Edith Grove. There's a national pandemic, and when it reaches England the three are trapped quarantining together. Everything would be fine if Mick didn't start looking at Keith differently...Fluffy fluff for now!
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is chapter one, I already have more written so there will definitely be a chapter two and maybe more.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stay well out there everyone.

Day 1

“Are you shitting me! Mick! Wake up! Brian! C’mere!”

It was a Saturday morning and all I wanted to do was sleep. I was in the middle of finals week, finally had a two day break, and intended to spend as much of it in bed as I could. Leave it to Keith, who did zilch all day, to ruin that.

“Shut up!” I called back, pulling the covers over my face.

From the other room I heard Brian join in: “Oy! Mick! You should hear this.”

I ignored him. However, Brian’s shouting covered the sound of Keith approaching, light-footed, to the side of my bed. He ripped the covers away. 

“Keith!”

“It’s serious,” was all Keith said. He dropped the blanket to the floor and turned back to the living room. 

I grumbled, stood, and pulled on the nearest pair of jeans from the floor. I wrapped one of the blankets around my shoulders and shuffled to the living room.

Keith and Brian were hunkered around the old radio, a castoff from my mum that weighed in at about three tons. Brian was smoking, Keith, holding his knees loosely to his chest. They were encircled by the perpetual filth of our apartment. Papers, old dishes, ashtrays, old dishes that had become ashtrays. Dirt from never removing our shoes inside the flat. 

“What in bloody—” I started to gripe.

“Shh! Listen.”

I pointedly stood, rather than joining them on the carpet. 

“Repeating for our listeners who have just tuned in. This is a stay-at-home order, mandated by Prime Minister Macmillan.” The audio quality changed to that of an arena, and Macmillan intoned, “For the safety of our country…in these trying times…I am asking all British citizens to do their part. Wash your hands. Keep your distance for others. Please, shelter in your homes and do not leave, excepting necessary errands. We will get through this together. But only if we all work hard, together.”

“What the bloody fuck.” I sank to my knees.

“Told you!” Keith said, proudly.

“What about university? My classes?” I looked from Brian to Keith. Brian pointed to the radio.

It was back to the original announcer. They went through primary and secondary schools first, a never-ending list. It brought back memories of waiting impatiently for an announcement of a rare snow day. Finally they got to universities. “The following universities have canceled their classes until at least 5 May...” I waited through the long list, until he got to “L.” There it was: “London School of Economics.”

“Well, there you are then!” Brian said, slapping me on the back. “Looks like our little Micky is in with us for good.”

I scowled. “This is terrible news!”

“How could that be!” Keith asked. “’Ey, pass me a fag.” Brian tossed him the pack. “Mick, give us a light.” There was a decrepit matchbook by my hand, with only two bent up strikes left. 

“Takes a village to light your fucking cig.” I passed it too him.

Keith took a few meditative puffs, then went on. “How could this be terrible news? You’ve been moaning about finals for weeks!”

“It’s not about school! What are we going to do? We’re all shit poor and now we’re all stuck in here together, all day, every day, in this dump?”

“We’d better go out for groceries,” Brian said, jumping to his feet in his frenetic Brian way. The boy would literally jump to his feet from a sitting position. “Michael, put on a shirt, you’re indecent. Keith, go get all your and Mick’s money. I’ll go out.” Quintessential Brian to take charge, and pretend like there was any decorum to be had in our filthy apartment—filth of which he was the greatest contributor. 

“I’ll get my own money!” I said, but Keith was already hurrying to our shared room.

I found him shaking my school bag upside down. “Hey!”

He was catching the coins that fell out like golden rain, laughing manically. “I’m rich! I’m rich!” He ran back to Brian in the living room. 

“You are both wankers!” I found a T-shirt under my bed that looked moderately clean. “We need a list, don’t just send Brian out with all the money, he’ll wind up with useless shit!”

“Yee of little faith.” Keith shook his head at me in mock admonition, but he knew I was right. 

“Right, fine,” Brian said. “Mick, write a list, you’ve the best handwriting anyway. Keith, you shall adorn me for my important quest.”

“Right away, sir.” Keith saluted him and tore off to our room again.

“Right, right.” I sat on the slouching couch and set pen to paper. Brian had collected all the money from the three of us in a little change purse he’d likely nicked from some bird. I counted it out, coins  
rolling all over the place, and tried to figure what we could afford. Flour was essential, milk wouldn’t last us long. If we’d had a telephone I would have rung my mum, asked her what they stocked up on in wartime. Powdered milk? Sugar, of course. Cigarettes. Beans! Canned tomatoes and green beans and things. 

As I wrote, Keith reappeared and dressed Brian in a coat, a mismatched set of winter gloves. He plopped a floppy hat atop Brian’s head, and tied a scarf around his nose and mouth. He stepped back, saying, “I dub thee Sir Brian, Knight of the Apocalypse.”

Brian snatched the coin purse and list from me. He read through it, nodding at each item. Then he headed for the door. “I hope that we shall meet again someday, dear brothers, if not in this earthly life, then in the next.”

Keith gave him a mock stoic salute. I chucked a balled-up sock at him, but he closed the door and it bounced off that instead. 

I sat back in the couch, sighing. The Prime Minister’s announcement didn’t come entirely out of the blue. We’d known the flu was spreading globally, we’d seen it in the newspapers and on the radio, but I hadn’t thought it would get this bad or this serious. I never expected universities to close here, even as I’d heard it happen in the states and other countries. Two days ago everything was relatively normal. “D’you think school will really close?” my classmates and I had asked each other. “Nah, not a chance.” Just yesterday I’d taken one of my last finals, gone out with some friends to the pub after to celebrate. Now there was nothing to do but sit on the couch and stare at the opposite wall. 

Day 3

All things considered, Brian had done an adequate job. He’d had to stand in long lines for the meagre selection of food we could afford. He’d managed two packs of cigarettes, some powdered milk, a dozen eggs, flour, sugar, several bags of beans, and some canned vegetables. We were promised via radio that the grocery stores would remain open. On the third day, the three of us sat, filling out the government assistance forms that had been dropped at every door. Keith and Brian were both smug because they could file for unemployment despite having not been employed. I received a letter from my mum who sent best wishes, and a little cash. 

“Thank you, Eva!” Keith said, kissing the envelope. 

It was a drizzly day. We put on a record, made weak tea, and basked in the strangeness. I worried about running out of money to pay the heating bill, not that it was ever warm in 102. We were all wearing bulky jumpers, drinking weak tea. Brian had called me a fascist for making him reuse a tea bag rather than start a fresh one, but I insisted. 

Around noon, Keith declared he had made bread before with his mum, when he was little, and set about trying to do so in the kitchen, using already dirty dishes. 

“I don’t think you can make bread without yeast,” Brian mused.

“I don’t see that you’ve gotten any!” Keith retorted.

“They were out! You’re going next, it’s a madhouse out there.”

Keith persisted, and his loaf came out like one big, flavorless muffin.

Brian and I fell to the ground laughing when he brought it out, dressed in an apron, supporting the tin with one flowered oven mitt. The loaf had risen far more than bread should, and was puffed larger on one end than the other.

“Look at him! He’s so proud!” Brian roared. 

I swept my hands like an orchestra conductor. “Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man—”

Keith set the tin delicately on a table, then took off his mitt and lunged at me.

“The mitts are off! The mitts are off!” Brian shouted, jumping up, ready to referee our fight. Keith landed on me hard, knocking me to the thread-bare carpet. 

“Get off! Get off!” I pounded on his back, half wheezing from laughter, half from pain. 

“I’m the only one doing fuck all to keep us fed!” Keith yelled, spit flying in my face.

“If you have the flu you just gave it to me!” I said, helpless with laughter. It was impossible to know whether Keith was taking this seriously or not. Most of the time, he and Brian just needed to blow off steam in whatever way they could. It could mean fighting, yelling, playing guitar, chasing each other around the apartment. I was the calm one, next to them. But that bloody loaf, and Keith wearing the apron, I couldn’t get over it.

“Apologize for insulting my loaf.”

“His loaf!” Brian crowed.

Keith raised his head to Brian. “You’re next!” I hoped he’d go for Brian and forget about me, but he refixed his gaze to me. “Apologize.”

For a moment I stared into his face, heat radiating off his body, which was clamped around mine. His knees were vicelike around my ribcage, his hands pinning my wrists above my head. Keith. I couldn’t remember the last time our bodies had been this close. His breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes and coffee. We stared at each other. He must have seen it in my face, that I was noticing his body, that I’d ceased to struggle. With a defiant push he was off me and lunging for Brian instead. I panicked, sat up, pulling my knees to my chest, and shoving backward to lean, casually as I possibly could, against the couch.

“He didn’t even apologize, why are you coming for me!” But it was too late, Keith had Brian is a wrestler’s hold, and they were going at it. I was relieved but mortified. Did Keith know what I was thinking?  
It was not necessarily that I’d thought of Keith in that way before. I’d always been aware, since I was a little boy, that I found men’s bodies enticing. I liked how they sat with legs splayed, how they stretched with arms over their heads. How careless boys were with their bodies in ways girls wouldn’t or couldn’t be. I liked boys’ shoulders and their calf muscles. I understood why the Greeks made so many statues. The male form was beautiful, more beautiful than most were willing to acknowledge. But all the same, I knew I liked girls too. They were often easier to talk too, funny and perceptive, and striking in their own ways, and if I was only allowed to love them, then that was fine. I’d figured. 

Sometimes I still looked at men. Sometimes I thought they might be looking back. But I didn’t really think about Keith. I’d known him forever, he was mate and flat mate, and it was dangerous to take it any farther than that. Wasn’t it?

Day 7

Keith hadn’t said anything that night. Not after he and Brian finally laid off each other, not after we ate part of his muffin loaf, not at bedtime, when we were alone in our room. I was scared to undress in front of him, lest he think I was trying to signal something. I was scared he wouldn’t undress in front of me because he suspected something. But there was nothing unusual. I slept in jeans. Keith stripped to his shorts, careless, and got into bed.

Since then I made sure to not look at him for too long, not sit right next to him if I could help it, go to Brian’s room first if I was bored. 

And we were all dreadfully, dreadfully bored. 

The first few days had been alright, doing what we would do on any weekend. Listen to the radio. Listen to records. Brian continued to teach me harmonica, Keith sat by the stereo, copying riffs on his guitar for hours. He and Brian should have been better at adjusting to our new life, as they’d spend most of the day at home, but they were just as restless as I. 

“We were still able to go out!” Keith said. “It wasn’t like this.”

The three of us were lying around the living room on day seven, listening to the radio but all sick to death of it.

Keith broke the silence. “Fuck it.” He got to his feet and went to the kitchen. A moment later we heard water running.

“What are you doing?” I called.

“I’m cleaning this fucking shit-tip!”

Brian and I looked at each other in alarm. 

“Keith! Keith are you okay!” We ran to him.

“Do you have a fever, mate,” Brian asked, trying to put a hand to Keith’s forehead.

“Are you off your rocker?” I asked.

“Leave me alone, you’ll thank me.”

“Now don’t let the pandemic drive you to become some bourgeoise clown!” Brian said. “Think about who you are, Keith. We’re better than this!”  
It was also impossible to tell when Brian was upset and when he just wanted to make a fuss. Probably he didn’t give a rat’s arse that Keith wanted to clean, but maybe he did. Brian did take the most pride in our filth. He was the first to reject society, especially high society. Sometimes I wished he’d chill out, make a nice cup of tea and read a book.  
Brian and Keith stood practically nose to nose for a moment. Keith said, “Go out and get groceries. Take Mick’s mum’s money. We’re practically out of everything already.”

Brian squinted his eyes, unblinking. “Fine,” he said, finally, and went to get Mum’s letter. 

Outfitted in cloves and a scarf, he set off. He’d protested before that Keith or I was going next, but by now we were all dying to get out. Keith knew I’d be less trouble staying in than Brian. 

Keith rolled his eyes as the door closed behind Brian. “God, can’t stand him.”

I laughed, surprising myself. 

“Roll up yer shirt sleeves, Mick-Mick. We’re getting to work.”

We used two far-gone shirts as rags, and found some dish soap, sudsing down all the dishes, drying them on a bath towel, stacking them neatly in the cabinets. 

“You know Brian’ll just ruin the lot of this,” I said. Honestly, I preferred order. I liked cleaning things, I’d just lost the taste for it. After a bit you get numb to mess, you think it’ll never be recoverable so you stop even thinking about it. 

“Nah, it got to him sometimes too, he’d just never admit it.”

Keith and Brian seemed to understand each other in a way I couldn’t. They were both more devoted to the music than I was. I loved it was much as they did, but I was still in school, still trying for a real career. They’d lashed themselves to it. They were ready. I was unsure. Probably from all those hours of being alone in the flat together they’d bonded in some irrefutable way. Of course, Keith and I had known each other as children, we were close in a way Keith and Brian, and certainly Brian and I, were not. But sometimes Keith’s and my bond seemed more unspoken. We were unquestionably there for each other. We needed each other, I believed, but we didn’t tackle or play or stay up all night with heads bent over guitars. 

“I know you’re sad to not have school anymore,” Keith said, in a softer tone. I looked up. “I know you were close to your degree, and it was important to you.”

I shrugged. “It was, I mean, it is. But there’s nothing to be done.”

“I know you think Brian and I are ridiculous.” Keith half smiled, but looked hurt, too. 

“No, no. Well, I mean, sometimes. Because you are. But you believe in this so much. I wish I felt as sure.”

We were standing by the sink, now clean of dishes, and, if not sparkling, pristine compared to an hour ago. The kitchen itself was straightened, the discarded dishes from the rest of the flat were washed. Keith had even made his bed, attempted to sort his laundry. We’d put records back in their sleeves and stacked them in a crate. We collected rubbish and found the bin and a bag for it. 

“Remember when we were just sprogs? Who wouldda thought, one day we’d be house bound together?” He winked. 

I rolled my eyes, but smiled back. 

“You never apologized for my muffin-loaf, though.”

“I—"

In a flash he grabbed both of my shoulders, surprisingly strong, shoving me against the cabinets, rattling the freshly washed dishes. Our eyes were nearly level, he looked at me, hard.  
I lifted my chin, realizing this might be what I wouldn’t have thought possible. Was this Keith coming on to me? Or did he just want to fight? He wasn’t usually aggressive with me, just with Brian, or occasionally to me if Brian was there and they were both riled up. 

“You couldn’t even call that a loaf of bread,” I said, staring back. His eyes looked brown, but I knew they were green-gray. 

We stood there. I thought maybe Keith wasn’t sure what to do, he’d reacted on instinct and now was stuck. We stood so close, barely breathing. My mouth was dry but I couldn’t swallow. Slowly, he raised his hands from my shoulders. The tips of his fingers brushed my cheeks, and then the front door was kicked open. “Help me with these bags you wankers!”

Day 14

Had I imagined it?

I barely slept the night of the Cleaning Day. Keith didn’t pay special attention to me, he went about shelving the groceries Brian brought. And he was right, Brian made a lot of noise, but we knew he was pleased with how decent the place looked. I even saw him eat a piece of toast, and clean his own plate when he was through.  
Terrified of having to undress in front of Keith or vice versa, I went to bed early that night, but I didn’t fall asleep. I pretended to be when Keith came in. I listened as he shuffled around, jumping out of his trousers, the belt buckled clinking. He got into bed, and fell asleep with a sigh. 

I didn’t let myself dwell on it after that night. Maybe he’d been about to punch me, maybe he’d been having a laugh. We were in too close proximity all day, and for possibly the coming months at this rate, for me to allow myself speculation. That would only lead to bad things. One day we would get out of here, and I’d move on. There were cute girls everywhere. I’d be fine.  
We listened to the radio broadcasts saying things were worsening. Patients flooded hospitals, nurses and doctors exhausted themselves, the public worried. Keith and I kept in regular correspondence with our mums to make sure everyone was doing okay. Inside 102, things were claustrophobic but fine. 

By week two, I was emotionally spent. I’d lived with Keith and Brian for six months, but I’d been gone most of the day. It was exhausting to be in close proximity at all hours, even when we weren’t talking. Brian never seemed to tire of it, though he had his own room. Some days Keith pointedly turned his attention to the record player, cranked the volume up loud, and seemed to dissolve into the music. If we asked him a question, he either pretended not to hear or really was lost to another dimension. 

By week two, I started going to bed at 21:00, just to have the room to myself for a bit. I’d also taken to drawn out baths, and sitting on the john much longer than necessary, just to put a little space between us all. 

Day 17

I was into my third night of reading peacefully in bed when Keith barged in at 21:45.

“Oy! I thought you were sleeping!” He acted as though this was a crime. 

“I was about to sleep,” I lied, reaching for the light. 

“Aw, keep your socks on, I’ll go back out. Just can’t stand Brian at the moment.”

It turned out Keith had a domestic streak, and though Brian had been dedicated in the beginning, he’d stopped washing his dishes or maintaining any sort of order. His room was disgusting as ever, while  
Keith and I tried to keep roaches from infiltrating the living room. 

He had his hand on the door knob when I said, “’S okay. You can stay, I was just getting a little peace. But, you know, I understand.”

"He was taking the piss for writing me mum— _him_! He has two bloody kids! Don’t know if he even knows whether Pat’s alive or dead, and he’s acting like I’m a patsy.”

I waved my hand. “He’s full of it, he’s just trying to hide that he’s worried by picking on you. It’s what he does.”

“Whatever, I’m sick of it.” He strode over to my bed. “Shove over.”

I was now sitting up in bed, leaning against the wall. I was already undressed, wearing only my shorts, with the blankets pulled up and a sheet around my shoulders. It was spring, still often damp and chill  
in our room. Reluctantly I moved over so Keith could hunch onto the bed, his back arched to the wall. He looked haggard. His hair needed a wash. I wanted to touch it. I thought about washing his hair, cupping the top of his head to keep water from running in his eyes. 

Surely I was losing my marbles, I’d never thought these thoughts about anyone before. It was the proximity undoing me. 

Keith pulled a half-smoked cigarette from his shirt pocket, and found our lighter on the windowsill. He shook it a few times; there was barely any fluid left. With a few snaps he lit it, took a puff, exhaled, and tilted his head against the wall.

“I hope our fucking government cheques come soon.”

“Yeah.” I was pretending to half-read my book. It was too strange for Keith to be sitting next to me when I was near naked. Had he ever done this before? Probably he had. And I’d never thought about it because I wasn’t two weeks into quarantine.

“Want a drag?” He held out the cig.

“Sure. Ta.” I took it from him, fingers brushing, and inhaled. “Smoking in bed is really quite nice,” I said. Keith held out our only real ashtray, one that had belonged to my father. I tapped the ash in. “When I’m rich, I’m going to start each day and end each day with a smoke.”

“Lofty dreams.” Keith took the cigarette from my fingers, finished it, and stubbed it out. “Doris is going to drop off a sourdough starter for us tomorrow. Since we can’t get any yeast anywhere.”

“You’re going to be such a good mummy some day.” Then I remembered what Brian had said, how he’d made fun of Keith for being too soft. I regretted it, but Keith took it in stride. 

“And you’ll be such a good daddy. Home from the office just in time for dinner. Kiss the kiddos on the head and send them to bed.”

“Yes, a perfect end to my boring fucking day at the office, sitting at a desk, wearing a tie. Can’t wait to mow the lawn on Sundays after church.”

“You know you’re headed for that.” 

I didn’t look at him. He was staring straight ahead, though his body was relaxed as always.

“I’m not headed for anything.”

“Well you will be, soon as this is all over.”

“I don’t know what I want to be, okay?” Now I did look over. “I’m trying to figure it out. I’m the older brother. I’m trying to be practical.”

Keith looked back at me. Our faces were maybe six inches apart. Keith’s hair lay lankly in his eyes. It was growing out, not that any of us could afford a proper haircut even before all this. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” His breath was all cigarette and ash. “You can do whatever you want, it’s your choice.”

We were so close. I gripped my book, my hands dampening the pages. My throat was sandpaper. I swallowed, trying not to make it obvious, sure Keith could read my face, sure he couldn’t know what I was thinking. If he knew, there was no way he’d sit this close to me, especially when I was shirtless, would he?

As if in a dream, he reached out and ran his thumb over my collar bone. I froze. Didn’t breathe. I watched his eyes, which had fallen to my chest. 

“Keith.” It came out as a whisper, too breathy. I cringed internally. But if Brian found out, he’d kick us both to the curb, I was sure. 

Keith snatched his hand away. “Sorry.” He said it gruffly, like he wasn’t really sorry, like he was reasserting his masculinity. Like he didn’t care.

I knew in an instant he would pull away, flee to his bed or out the door. I wanted to touch him. Before he could stand, I reached out a shaky hand and put it to his cheek, so lightly I almost didn’t feel it. Then I did feel it, it was scratchy where mine were still smooth. 

“How often do you shave?” It came out before I could think.

Keith grinned. I felt like I would be sick, from euphoria and also terror. 

“I s’pose every other day. What about you?”

I let my hand drop from his face. “I dunno. Maybe every week or so.”

“Just for those tiny baby hairs, though,” he said, squinting at me in a smile. 

I rolled my eyes, though he was right. “What do you know about it.”

“I know I’m five months younger than you!” His eyes glinted. 

“That’s right young man, respect your elders.” Words came from my mouth, the usual retorts I would give him. I wasn’t thinking, I was blabbing whatever surfaced first. All I could think was that a moment ago my hand had been on his face, and he hadn’t run, and he hadn’t sworn at me. He was still sitting here right in front of me, our faces still so close.

“Look at that,” he said, gesturing to my bare chest. “Hairless as a newborn babe. Compared to—” He lifted his T-shirt, showing me the dark hairs that bisected him in a fuzzy line, leading down below his waistband. I instinctively reaching out to touch them, gently coarse, and his skin was warm. But then I tugged the shirt down. I didn’t want to explain it was because, what if Brian came in? I didn’t want to name what this was, lest it frighten him away.

“You’ll be a hairy old man one day. You’ll be waxing your fucking back.”

“Show me your armpit.”

“What? No!”

I clutched the sheet around me tighter, which only made Keith laugh. He pulled it from my shoulder, and extended my arm above my head. I didn’t fight him. I was mesmerized that his hand was holding just below mine, that his eyes were on me, my body. “Baby blond fucking hairs,” he whispered, sticking a finger in my armpit. I managed a quiet, “Stop!” but I was laughing. Keith was laughing too, nearly giggly in the way we used to be as boys. 

“Don’t show me you fucking armpit, I don’t need to see more of them than I already do.”

“Oh, don’t you!”

He was fixing to pull his shirt off, hands on the hem, and I yanked it down. Our faces were so close now. 

“Show me your legs,” I said, weakly. 

He looked right in my eyes. For a moment I thought he would lean in, or I would. Slowly, he brought his leg to his chest, and rolled up his trouser leg. There was his shin, covered in dark hair.  
“Come on, then.”

I swallowed again. Keeping the blankets tactfully around my waist, I withdrew one leg from the comforter, proffering it to him. He ran the back of his hand up my leg, against the grain. My who body lit up. I could feel all the blood rushing to one place. I looked away. 

“How is your hair so blond when this is dark?” He reaching a hand to touch my fringe, and I shivered.

There was a knock on the door. I jumped about a foot, tangling all of my limbs back under the blankets. Keith bounded to his feet and across the room. I fumbled for my book. Setting it in my lap, I focused on the unreadable words. 

Brian was outside the door. “Oh, I thought I heard voices.”

“Yeah, turns out Mick was still up.”

I glanced at Brian, trying to look uninterested. 

“I wondered if my harmonica was in there, I’m thinking up a new part for something.”

“Mick?” Keith asked, scratching his head. His right trouser leg was still halfway hiked up, I saw, but there was no way Brian would notice.

“Oh, uh, on my table.” My bedside table was about two feet away from where I sat. Probably I could reach it without exposing myself, but I was horrified to think what Brian might see if I wasn’t careful. Keith sprinted over, fetched the harmonica, and handed it to Brian. 

“Night,” he sing-songed. If Brian thought anything of this, he didn’t say. His face betrayed nothing. 

Keith snapped off the light. For a moment I sat in the dark, letting my eyes adjust. I felt cold and hot. Hot where Keith had touched me, cold that it was over, maybe for good. Who knew what that was, how Keith felt about it. But then there was a weight beside me. 

“Time for bed,” Keith said. “Shove over.”

“I don’t think you should,” I whispered. There was no way to lock the door.

“Shut it. I’ll get up before it’s light.” I knew he wished he didn’t have to explain these things to me. I repositioned so I was lying down, and stuck close to the wall, so Keith would be on the outside and could maneuver more easily. His head thumped next to mine on the single pillow. It was a narrow bed, made for just one person, but we could fit. The low food store was keeping us skinny was ever.  
In the dark, Keith reached out to touch my belly. There was hair there, it was just light and fine. 

I turned on my side, to face him, unbreathing. His hand moved to my back, the ridges of my spine. I touched his bare arm, feeling the bone where his forearm met his upper arm, protruding, but dull under the skin. The bed jostled, Keith’s weight lifted, then came back down. When I reached out again, I felt that he’d taken off his shirt. His spine didn’t stick out like mine, but formed a lovely indent all down his back. I traced it with my fingers. He sucked in a breath, softly. I moved my fingers up, finding a sparse patch of hair on one of his shoulders. 

“Told ya you’ll be an old hairy man,” I said, softly.

I didn’t wait to see if he’d kiss me, I turned my back to him. His hand found my stomach again, and pulled me against him, warm to his chest. I could tell that he’d fallen asleep, almost as soon as we’d reconfigured. His breaths were long and deep, and I tried to match them, willing myself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! This is making my quarantine way more bearable. Here's chapter 2!
> 
> The "Night of 101 Records" was inspired by a part of Patti Smith's book Just Kids.

Day 18

Keith was gone not only from my bed by next morning, he was gone from the room. I was half sure I’d dreamed it, but there was the ashtray by the foot of my bed, there was Keith’s discarded T-shirt by the side.

As my eyes adjusted, Brian banged through the door, startling me to standing position. He bent double, laughing. In his hand was a frying pan, still smoking. Had our flat smoke detectors, they would have been blaring. 

“What’s wrong with you!" Brian hooted. 

I was just standing there in my shorts. “You scared the bloody daylight out of me!” I chucked Keith’s shirt at him, then realized he might recognize it was Keith’s and ask why it was on my side of the room. I was being paranoid. He dodged the shirt, didn’t spare it a glance.

“I made bacon, ya wanker.” He switched his voice to that of a street vendor, “Bacon ‘ere! Get yer bacon! Nice and smokey, freshly burnt!” He cackled and headed out the door. I hurried to dress and follow him into the living room, where Keith was planted next to the record player, munching thoughtfully on a piece or burnt bacon, guitar resting in his lap. 

“Where on earth did we get bacon?”

“Me mum sent us some.” Keith gestured to an open box on the sofa. I peered inside to see a bottle of laundry detergent, cooking yeast in a tiny jar, and some fresh pairs of socks. 

“God bless Doris.”

“Amen,” Brian said, shoving an entire piece of bacon into his mouth. 

I tried not to look at Keith, focusing instead on the letter from his mum. She’d sent helpful instructions on washing clothes in a basin, baking bread, and frying bacon. Clearly Brian had skipped the latter. 

The bacon was good, anyway. Anything was better than beans and canned vegetables. Not that we’d eaten much better before the flu, but the illusion of variety existed. I took another piece, licking my fingers when I was done. 

“So fellas, what shall we do today?” Brian asked, standing in the middle of the room, between me and Keith. He jumped from foot to foot, ever the court jester. 

I felt hungover despite not having had a drink in weeks. I hadn’t slept well, had drifted off just before first light, Keith’s breathing loud in my ear. Sometime in the early hours he’d left me, and I hadn’t noticed. Now, just four hours later, we were back, the monotony reasserted. I wanted a bath and for Brian to leave me alone. Perhaps even for Keith to leave me alone so I could collect my thoughts. I longed to go for a walk. I dreamed of going to shops and touching everything, and seeing mates, and watching bands, and pressing close to strangers’ bodies because there was no reason not to. 

“Don’t worry because I’ve already an idea.” Brian produced a pair of sheers from behind his back. 

“Look at you, a bloody magician.”

He was unperturbed. “Haircuts!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Keith said, finally ungluing himself from the record player. “None of us know how to do that.”

“Do you see this??” Brian asked, pointing to his fringe, which was far past his eyebrows and threatening to overtake his face. “Well it’s _all_ I can bloody see!”

“Should have asked your mum to send instructions on that,” Keith said, nodding his head at me.

My mum was a hairdresser. I wouldn’t have told anyone but Keith and Brian, but sometimes I still let her cut my hair. She did a great job, and of course didn’t charge. Sitting in her chair, the smock wrapped round my neck, I felt like a little boy again. It was comforting. 

“Mick, I’m begging you. I’m losing me sight. You wouldn’t cripple a bloke like that!”

Of course I’d seen Mum cut hair millions of time, but it’s not like seeing makes you a professional. I told Brian so, but he didn’t care. Fifteen minutes later, he was seated on the toilet, shirtless, facing the mirror, and I had a wet comb and was plastering down his fringe. “I may ruin you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Everyone will have nasty haircuts by the time this is through.”

I supposed he was right. “Alright, close your eyes.” I knew to cut fringe in a semicircle, like the mouth of an upside-down smiley, to frame the face. I held sections of his hair between my fingers, as Mum always did. Carefully, I worked from one end to the other, stepping back after every snip to measure and adjust.

“You’re making me nervous,” Brian said through clenched teeth. His eyes remained closed the whole time. “Just get it over with.”

“Shh, the artist needs quiet.” I tipped his chin up just slightly. 

He swatted me away.

“Oh, ticklish?”

“Keith! Come give a second opinion!” he howled. “I daren’t open my eyes and see what a fool I’ve become!” Leave it to Brian to force me into cutting his hair, then accuse me of taking too long. 

Keith shuffled in, inspecting Brian from side to side. 

“He’s doing a good job, mate.”

Brian’s eyes squeezed tighter. “You’re putting me on.” 

“No, honest. Keep ‘em closed, though.” Keith pushed his face into my hair. His nose brushed my ear. I closed my eyes, scared to breathe. I wanted to pull him to me, but of course didn’t.

Eyes still closed, Brain said, “Okay Mick, get on with it.”

“Right.” I cleared my throat. “Keith, bugger off, there’s no room in here for three.” Even in saying so I reached for his hand, just to touch him. 

He held my hand aloft and bowed his head, as if he was a gentleman and I a fine lady. I shook my head, warning him. He grinned, turned, and retreated to the living room.

“Mick!”

“Chill your beans.” I took a moment to collect myself, then, focusing very hard, returned my attention to Brian’s hair. I was about three quarters done, and I had to agree with Keith, it didn’t look half bad. 

A few more snips, and I told Brian to open his eyes. He shook his hair out, rubbed his face down with one hand, and blinked at the mirror. “Bloody hell!” he said, turning from side to side. “Mick! You’ve found your calling!”

“Shut it.”

He laughed in his manic Brian way, but finally settled. “Really, mate, it’s better than I expected.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Me mum taught me to make cookies once. I’m going to make some to celebrate my renewed good looks!”

Honestly, he took the piss out of Keith and me for being soft, and there he was strutting around the kitchen, flipping his golden hair. 

***

“Maybe you should cut my hair,” Keith said, innocently. 

Brian’s cookies were chewy and deformed, he’d added too much salt or the wrong sort of salt, or something like that, but we couldn’t afford to waste anything. They weren’t inedible; such was the state of all our cooking. Keith promised he was going to master bread, and I knew how to soak beans and make rice. 

“Haircutting luck doesn’t strike twice,” I said, over the lip of my textbook. I obviously couldn’t look too eager. I was sitting on the couch, trying to study for when university resumed. 

Brian had his legs propped on the couch and his body on the floor, Keith was at his station by the record player. 

“Want me to do yours, Mick?” Brian asked, his mouth half full of cookie.

“No thank you.” I pushed my fringe out of my eyes. “I think I’ll grow it out, go for a bohemian look, you know.”

“How daring. Keith, want me to cut yours?”

“Not with a ten-foot pole.”

“Maybe we should shake out the couch cushions and go shopping again, we’re nearly out of canned foods,” I offered.

“I’m not going again,” Brian said, in the voice of a spoiled child.

Keith and I glanced at each other. Surely we’d been thinking the same thing. 

“I’ll go,” Keith said. “But not before I get me hair cut. I won’t go out there looking like a daftie.”

“Well I could go and spare you both the indignity,” I said.

“No, no. Poor little Prefect needs to study.”

I was pretty sure this constituted flirting, and I grinned at Keith over Brian’s head. 

“Cut his bloody hair, this is getting ridiculous.” Brian jumped up to grab more cookies from the plate on the coffee table. 

“Fine.” I snapped my book shut.

Brian took Keith’s place at the record player, lifted the needle off what he’d been playing, and selected a fresh record for himself. “Finally some peace.”

I rolled my eyes. Keith and I went to the bathroom, me with sheers and a comb.

“Why do we put up with him, again?” I set the sheers on the sink while I ran the comb under water. 

“You’ll love him again once you’re not spending every bleeding minute with him,” Keith said, grinning. 

“Alright, what can I do for you today, sir?” I started flattening his fringe down with the wet comb, plastering it to his forehead. Wet, it hung below the ridge of his forehead, into his eyes. The back was getting shaggy and long too. The way it had been cut, it was growing out worse than mine was, which was fortunate since I didn’t trust either of my flatmates with the delicate task of fixing my hair. One day this would end, and I’d go straight to Mum for a tune up. Until then, I figured I’d get to looking like Tarzan, and I’d be okay with that. 

“Just a little off the top, if you please.” He smiled at me cheekily, with squinting eyes. 

“Okay, hold still.”

“Hang on.” Keith grabbed the edge of his T-shirt and pulled it off, exposing his scrawny chest to full light. I tried not to stare. “Go on,” he said softly. 

I hesitated, then placed my hands lightly on his shoulders, pressing the cold metal of the scissor handle between my palm and his clavicle. His skin was warm, and I thought of all the places I might touch him. Where his jaw met his neck, the ridges of his collar bones, the inside of his wrists, the creases between his fingers. The soft skin behind his ears. I was paralyzed. Keith’s eyes were dark in this light. With one finger, I barely touched his Adam’s apple. I barely touched the ridge of his ear, down to the lobe. He shivered. Reached up, and clasped my wrists. Such a contrast to the way I touched him, but I liked it. He lifted my hands from his body, took the hem of my shirt, and stood as he pulled it over my head. I raised my arms, letting him. 

He returned to sitting on the toilet. “It’s hot in here. And you’d get hair all under it anyway,” he said, almost a whisper. 

I nodded, scarcely breathing.

He reached out and grasped my waist with both hands, pulling me to him, pressing his face into my stomach. I couldn’t help laughing, almost a giggle. The laugh telegraphed from my stomach to his cheek. “What?” he asked. He didn't look up when he spoke. He kept his warm, slightly scratchy cheek pressed to my stomach. It was because he kept pushing his face into me, such a funny way to articulate closeness, as if he was a cat, vying for attention. 

“Nothing.” I petted the back of his neck, the soft duckling hairs there. I dipped to place a kiss on the top of his head, then pushed back. “Your hair’s dry, I’ve got to start again.”

He kept his hands on my waist as I wetted the comb, once again brushing out his fringe.

“Don’t make it too neat. I’m not that sort of boy.” He winked at me. 

Sometimes my mum cut Keith’s hair too, but just as often I went alone. “Wait a minute, who does cut your hair?” I asked.

He looked up at me through dark uneven strands, just curling at the ends. He grinned like a cat. “I do.”

Day 20

“I have a surprise for you both,” Keith said.

It was another boring, boring day. Life was much more exciting now that Keith and I were doing whatever we were doing, but it was more stressful, too. Besides worrying blandly about whether the flu would overtake us all, I now worried constantly about Brian finding us out. Even with all my new worries, there were many moments when there was no way to be with Keith, to touch him or even look at him too much, and those moments were drawn out, interminable. We played poker, making up the rules we forgot. We played Who Can Guess The Song First, one person taking a turn as DJ, picking a random 45 and dropping the needle, the other two competing. We played trash basketball, partially to get Brian to clean up. When restlessness reached a critical max, Keith and Brian made a circle on the floor out of dirty clothes, and wrestled in the middle, holding each other in poses that were frankly erotic, though I pretended to be only vaguely amused. They wanted me to be referee, but I didn’t know or care to know the rules.

“K.O.!” Brian would yell, jumping to his feet, only to clobbered by Keith from behind.

“Keith wins,” I’d say dully, without looking up from my novel. I spent a lot of time pretending to read, but about as much time actually reading, since there simply was nothing to do. 

“He does not!” Brian would rage, though of course I’d barely been watching their convulsions. 

On the 20th day, which was a Saturday, according to the calendar I’d made and taped on the wall above the couch, Keith stood in the middle of the room, addressing Brian and me.

“What is it?” We were both interested. 

“Close your eyes, hold out your hands.”

We sighed, did as told. Keith pushed our outstretched hands next to each other, to create a shelf. Onto it he placed something smooth and cold. “Open!” He could barely contain his excitement.

We opened. Laid in our hands was a fifth of vodka, pristine in its clear bottle. 

“What!” I asked.

“What!” Brian jumped to his feet, holding the bottle over his head like a football cup. “Where did you get this!”

“Nicked it when I was out shopping,” Keith said, smugly.

“How did you get it home?” I reached out to Brian. He handed me the bottle. 

“Stuck it in me pants.”

Brian and I were helpless with laughter. Keith had done the shopping yesterday, adorned in hat and gloves and scarf, large overcoat. He’d returned with not much, since we searched the apartment high and low but only produced a few quid. 

“Tonight,” Keith continued, “we’re going to have a party. It’s a night of a hundred and one records, gentlemen.”

We’d done this before, though only once. When we’d moved in together, we pooled our records, and found we had exactly a hundred and one 45s. 

“Yes!” Brian said. He took the bottle back from me. “This is our dinner tonight.” 

I nodded. “For such a fine occasion, we must dress in our party best.”

“Naturally,” Keith said. “Brian, meet you in ten.” He grabbed my arm for just a second, to pull me in the direction of our room. It was a gesture he might have made platonically, and of course Brian didn’t notice. I followed him.

Keith closed the door behind us too loudly. The door had a keyhole, but the key was long gone.

He pushed me against the door, my shoulder blades knocking to the wood. He stood with hands pressed on either side of me, staring into my eyes. His were brown again. Mine were probably scared. 

Some daft part of me had been delaying the first kiss.

We stared. I swallowed dryly, licking my lips. I’d lost all my spit, all moisture was flowing to my palms. I wanted to wipe them on my jeans but it would be too obvious.

“What are you going to wear to the party?” I asked, nearly whispered. Not coy at all.

Keith smiled. It was a gently amused smile.

Once I kissed him, I would never want to stop kissing him. 

He seemed to be weighing the options of leaning in, and stepping back. I didn’t want to make him be the one to make the move, but I was immobilized, unsure. Maybe this was the wrong choice. What would happen when this was all over? Keith was a good mate, I didn’t want to lose that.

“Well, let’s see.” He drew back from me, taking one of my hands, pulling me to his dresser. “What d’you think is my party best?”

“Jacket and tie.” I wrenched open the door to our shared closet—the door always stuck. Keith had a slim back jacket that he’d bought at a thrift store. I found a white collared shirt as well, and a black tie, which was mine. He already had black trousers on. 

“Here.” I stepped to him cautiously. He nodded approval. I set the garments on his bed, then reached for his shirt. He let me pull it over his head. I laid a hand square on the middle of his chest, right over his sternum. He looked at my hand, then grasped me by the shoulders, pulling me so close I felt his breath on my face. Coffee. We’d run out of cigarettes. 

“I don’t think we should,” I whispered. 

“Why?” It was genuine, not angry. Hi eyes were black now, glinting in the dim light. 

“I don’t know.” I looked down at my hand on his chest, moved my fingers slightly. “We’ve never done this—I mean, you’ve never been with a bloke, have you?”

Now Keith looked down. His grip on my arms softened but he didn’t let go. His lips twitched for a moment before he spoke. “I…I kissed a bloke in Dartford Tech once.”

“You did??” For some reason I felt relief more than anything. I suppose because it wasn’t just me, it wasn’t just this, the flu and the isolation and the madness. He’d thought about it before.

“It wasn’t a big thing—haven’t you?” He glanced at me, then away.

“Well, no. I mean, I thought about it, you know. But no. Only birds. I just thought—it would be too…complicated.” I looked down too. 

“So you don’t want this.” It was hardly a question. He lowered his hands from my shoulders and took a small step back. 

I hated the pain in his voice, the embarrassment. Thinking all this time he’d been wrong and I’d been allowing him, too scared to say no. The moment that I felt relief he felt cold fear. 

I took a step forward. “No—no. Keith.”

He looked up. I saw the flash of the boy I knew at Wentworth. I put my hands out to him, placing them gently on either side of his ribcage. He shifted, like he might move away, but he didn’t. He was like a skeleton under his shirt. I worried he was losing weight.

“That’s not it. I’m just—” I faltered. “Scared. I guess.”

He nodded, still looking away. Then he did pull back, out of my hands. He turned around to his dresser. With his back to me he started, “Do you…” He sighed heavily, bones and tendons moving under his skin. “Like me?”

I closed my eyes. “Yeah.” He didn’t turn. “Yeah. I like you.”

After an agonizing moment, my words hanging in the air, me wondering if should run from the room, perhaps the flat, he turned slowly to look at me. My golden, shadowy boy. I heaved a breath. “Can’t believe you’d make me have to say it, you twit.” 

He smiled, looking down.

“Brian’ll be barging in here any second, let me get you dressed.”

He still didn’t look at me, but nodded, I thought blushed.

He slipped on the white shirt and we worked the buttons together. I buttoned the one just under his throat and fixed the tie around his neck. He watched as I looped it under itself, adjusting and tightening. Then I held the jacket and he slid his arms through.

“Now I’m dressing you. I’ll be a fancy university boy, you’re going to be cool.”

“I take great offense in the name of university boys everywhere.”

Keith selected a striped T-shirt, found a scarf to tie around my neck, a braided belt for my jeans, a floppy cap for my head, and a pair of sunglasses. 

He looked so nice in a suit, his hair clean and washed, his face just shaved that morning. I was sure I looked a fool, but I didn’t care. 

“Such a nice university boy you make.” I smiled serenely, mocking.

“I liked you better without any shirt.” He pulled me by both sides of the scarf, pressing his temple into mine. I could smell his aftershave, spicy and cool. I held the back of his head. Touching him was still so new, I didn’t want to do everything yet, couldn’t push my hands through his hair, though I longed to. He bent his head and kissed my throat, just under my jaw. And then we heard footsteps the split second before Brian crashed through the door. “What are you waiting for, you wankers! It is the Night of One Hundred and One Records.”

***

“Alright Micky, you go first.” Keith insisted on tying my scarf around my eyes as I rummaged in our crate of 45s to select the first of the night. First picker got first drink, too, he said. Some of the 45s had sleeves, but a lot were bare, rolling around. I grabbed the third one my fingers touched, and held it up. 

Keith and Brian cheered. I pulled down my blindfold to see “Got Love if You Want it,” with a B-Side of “I’m a King Bee,” by Slim Harpo, a flat favorite.

“Alright!” Keith took the 45 from me to place on the platter, handing me the vodka in exchange. We hadn’t a shot glass between us, it would have to be straight from the bottle.

I chugged a searing sip. “Ugh.” I handed the bottle to Keith, who followed suit. He passed it to Brian.

“Woo!” Brian pounded his chest. He had fashioned himself as a ring master, in some moth-bitten tailcoat, a top hat, and a bowtie. 

It was just as it had been on our last Night of 101 Records, each song better than the last. We all had a partial mental tally of which records hadn’t been played yet, which favorites were still to come. The songs fit together in new, kaleidoscopic ways, Elvis sliding into Chuck Berry, sliding into BB King, which became Muddy Waters, over and again. 

We passed the bottle.

Brian stood, looped his arm through Keith’s, and whirled around the room in a break-neck jig.

We passed the bottle again. Keith leaped on top of Brian, pinning him. They tussled and kicked, squawking like girls, coming dangerously close to spilling the bottle.

On the fourth pass, we all made toasts.

“Esteemed guests. Ladies,” Brian nodded to Keith and me, “and gentlemen, I would like to thank you for all joining in this momentous occasion tonight. As we gather together, let us be grateful for Mr. Richards’s talent for sticking large objects in his trousers. Let us be grateful for Mr. Jagger’s mum and for Mr. Jagger being a poof and learning how to cut hair from her.”

My face grew hot. I didn’t dare look at Keith.

“And let us be thankful for me, ladies and gentleman, your humble host this evening. I really am brilliant and dashing, it’s all true. God save the queen.” He drank, passed the bottle to Keith. 

I could tell Keith was already snockered. We hadn’t may occasions to drink this much before, since booze was expensive and we barely scraped rent, but I knew the signs. Drink made his head light, and he’d get dizzy, start moving gently, as if underwater, have a blissed-out expression. “Cheers to me, for being a sneaky fucker. Cheers.” He drank. Passed the bottle to me. 

"Evening all.” I hoisted the bottle, gallantly. “If you're out tonight, don't forget, if you're on your bike, wear white.”

Brian took a fifth swig, but Keith and I waved the bottle away. I hid it behind a sofa cushion when Brian went to the loo. If we were careful, we’d have some left for a rainy day. I had no idea which number record we were on, at this point there was a jumble in the crate that hadn’t been played, and a spilling stack outside that had been. The current song stopped. Keith rolled to his side to flip it. When he flopped back to a sitting position, he landed next to me. We were shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the couch. 

“Hey,” he said, grinning.

“Hey.” I winked at him. 

He winked back, first one eye, then the other. He broke down in giggles, leaning his head against my shoulder, helpless. He lolled his head back to the couch, then back to my shoulder, burrowing his nose into my neck. It tickled, and I pushed him gently. He'd taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Disheveled in the most maddening way imaginable. 

“Shh! Stop!” I knew Brian would be out any moment. I was giggling too, though.

Lazily, seemingly with no forethought, Keith reached for my shoulders, leaned in, and kissed me. I had no time to process what he was about to do. It was a chaste kiss, simple, and over before my brain had caught up. But my body exploded in warmth. Champagne ran under my skin, golden and bubbly. His face was still so close to mine, our noses touching, his hands still on the back of my neck. I was hot, and then cold, almost shivery. I had done it. I’d kissed a bloke, and it wasn’t awful or earth-shattering. It wasn’t really any different than kissing a girl, except Keith didn’t smell like a girl, his face was a little rough. Maybe I can do this, I thought.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I was still shivering, I didn’t know why, but my body was electric, every hair raised, and I was cold, and I was elated. “Yeah.” I bumped my forehead against his, reached down to hold him close by the collar of his white shirt. 

“Are you cold?”

“Yeah, but—oh.”

“Let me get the thermometer.” He started to stand.

“No.” I caught his hand. “I think it’s just,” I gestured with my other hand. He looked at me, curious and concerned. “I think it’s just, you know, this.” I passed my hand between us. 

“You’re shivering because I kissed you?”

I laughed; it came out breathless. “I’m fine.”

“One moment.” He patted my cheek and dashed to our bedroom. Brian was still in the toilet. The record hit a snag, the 45 stuttering. I reached over to right it. I took stock of the living room, the light wheeling just a bit. There was the record player, coming into focus, with the record almost done. The floor, littered with dishes and papers and discarded socks and shed-able items of clothing. The walls, old, cracked in some places, taped with a Muddy Waters poster, a framed painting of flowers from my mum. 

Keith returned, holding the glass thermometer and one of his jumpers. It was woolen, blue. “Here.” He unwrapped the scarf from my neck, held the jumper up for me. I raised my arms, feeling like a three-year-old. We were both sloshed enough that the whole process was funny and difficult. My arms wouldn’t slide through the sleeves, and he couldn’t get the neck hole centered on my head. He fell into my chest, laughing, and I held him there, breathing into his hair. More than his aftershave, he had a Keith smell. It was a little musty, a little like laundry detergent, a little like bar soap, a little like sweat. 

“Let doctor Keith take your tempy.” 

I tipped my head back, laughing. He popped the thermometer in my mouth, catching me off guard. 

“Chughxhh!”

“Hold it there for three minutes.” He held up his watch to indicate he’d be timing. Then he reached over to flip the record. 

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a thermometer under my tongue. I moved it from one side to the other. Where had he gotten a thermometer? It was so sensible and un-Keith-like. Is this from your mum? I wanted to ask, but it came out “If thif from yur mumn?”

“Shh, no talking.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead, resting there a moment. “You don’t feel hot.”

I couldn’t tell him how sweet this was, he’d never want it spoken aloud. I also didn’t want to tell him I was pretty sure it was a shock reaction, not because I’d succumbed to the flu. 

After an eternity I made an impatient noise and tapped the thermometer. 

Keith looked down at his watch, then busted out laughing. “I don’t remember what time I started!”

I rolled my eyes and took the thermometer from my mouth, handing it to him. “I’m suing Dr. Keith for malpractice.”

He held the thin glass cylinder very close to his eyes, turning it to the light to catch the thread of silver mercury. “Normal!” He kissed my cheek. 

“Let’s check you, then.”

Brian re-entered the room right as I was sticking the thermometer into Keith’s mouth.

“Y’okay?”

“Just being cautious. You okay, mate?”

“Started reading the newspaper someone left on the back of the can. Bloody interesting!”

Keith started giggling. 

“No laughing! This is an important medical procedure.” 

Keith reached out to tap my watch. I’d forgotten the time too, of course.

“Let’s say it’s three minutes.” He removed the thermometer, studying it. He glanced at me, and I saw the flash of worry. He handed it to me. The mercury reached just past 37.7.

“That’s not a bad fever,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve a fever?” Brian looked around the room. “Mick, where’s the bottle?”

“Brian, we should test you too. Keith, I’ll make you some tea.”

“You don’t think…” He looked from the thermometer to me again. 

“I’m sure you’re fine, mate.” I patted his shoulder.

“We should clean the thermometer first!” Brian called after me. “Do we have rubbing alcohol?” I hadn’t even thought about that, though the danger of Keith and I swapping spit was now moot. 

“Look behind the bathroom mirror!” I yelled from the kitchen. I lit the burner with a match, and cranked up the heat. The old red teapot was dented on one side, we’d lost the cover for the spout so it took ages to boil. I searched the barren cabinets for some earl gray. I knew tea wouldn’t necessarily help Keith’s fever, but it was what my mum always did when someone was sick. Or when there was any bad news, really. First thing’s first: tea. 

I returned to the living room with two mugs. Keith was wrapped in a blanket on the couch. He must have turned off the record player, because rock and roll had been traded for classical music, piped through the radio. The mood had shifted. It now felt like an artsy French film. Two artists living in a shabby apartment, one slowly dying of TB, the other nursing him through. 

Before I could think, I set the mugs on the coffee table, leaned in, and kissed him. He kissed me back, urgently, pressed his mouth into mine. It was a real kiss this time. I held his face with my hand, stroked his cheek with one thumb, and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, pulling me closer by the seam in my shirt. I felt drunk all over again. Writers love to tell you that time slows down when you kiss, but it’s simply not true. It speeds up, minutes evaporate in mere seconds.

Keith broke away first. He murmured, “You know you shouldn’t.”

“I know.” I leaned in again, and he was smiling as I kissed him. Our teeth nearly clinked. I giggled. He did too.

His face was ruddy, either with fever or the rising body temperature that always accompanies kissing. “I knew once I kissed you I’d never stop,” I whispered, tucking loose hair behind his ear.

He kissed me quickly. “That’s why I started it.”

The moment shattered as Brian came through the door. 

“I’m still okay,” he said, somber. “Just a touch above normal.” He joined us on the couch, sighing. “I was thinking,” he looked between Keith and me, “Keith should take my room. That way we can keep him separate.”

“But if he has it there’s no way we won’t all get it,” I said.

“No, he’s right,” Keith said. “It would be better for you to stay away from me.”

I raised my eyebrows to him. “But we’ve been sharing a room. I’m more likely to have it than Brian, so maybe he should stay away from us.”

“Orr,” Brian drawled, “maybe I should push your beds together and make one big bed and you should both share mine.” Keith and I looked at each other. “Just trying to think up all the possible options!”

I rolled my eyes, trying to pass this off as the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. “You’re not helping.”

“I’ll stay in Brian’s room for now,” Keith said. “It can’t hurt.”

I took my temperature once more, and when it came back fine, under normal, as I always read when healthy, I was forced to agree with Keith. I’d keep my distance from Brian in case I did have it, and if or when I got it, I figured Keith and I could return to sharing a room. 

Our party officially ended, we left Keith on the couch, donned winter gloves, and began shuffling his bedding to Brian’s room, and Brian’s bedding to Keith’s bed. I cracked our bedroom window to air it. Brian carried a few books and clothes into our room. He wiped down the thermometer, I made an attempt at straightening Brian’s room—carrying out the used dished, corralling trash into the bin. I cracked Brian’s window too. 

“We should probably all get some sleep,” I said, once we were done. Keith was still on the couch. His eyes were heavily-lidded. He seemed worse than before, but maybe it was psychosomatic. People in our age range weren’t dying from this, but still. No one knew much about the mysterious flu other than it was sure to make you feel dreadful for a week or two. Some people had to go to hospital, some were fine at home. I wished for the millionth time for a phone, to ring Mum, or my childhood doctor even. 

Keith took his guitar to Brian’s room, and got into bed.

“I’ll make you some toast. Do you want more tea?” I lingered in the doorway.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

I knew Brian wouldn’t say anything about me babying Keith, because we were both worried, for Keith and for ourselves, and saying anything about my kindness would make him a tosser. 

“I’ll just take his temperature again, then go to bed,” I said to Brian, who nodded. He was already in our room, our shared bloody room, climbing into Keith’s bed. I closed the door, putting as many barriers between Brian and Keith and me as possible. 

“Thanks,” Keith said, as I sat on the edge of his bed and handed him the plate of toast. I’d mashed a few beans on it. 

“You should eat something before bed. We didn’t really have dinner.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you worried?” I reached over to push hair from his eyes. 

“Just worried about you.”

“Don’t be stupid, we’ll all be fine.”

We didn’t need to speak what we were both thinking. That he had to agree with Brian that I stay away from Keith. That now we’d be farther apart from ever, even though I knew it wasn’t far. We were in the same bloody flat, but he wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed tonight. How had it only been three days, but already sleeping next to him was essential?

“We should sleep. It’s nearly one.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t move. I took his hand in mine, smoothing my thumb over his fingernails. 

“If you get it, Brian will have to tend to both of us and we’ll surly parish.”

I smirked. “Or, this was all a ploy so you could get your own room and force me to sleep with goldie locks.”

“It wasn’t that.” He knew I was joking, but still said it earnestly. In his overlarge sweater, red blanket pulled to his chin, the lamplight, he was soft and beautiful. I felt an awful Florence Nightingale syndrome blooming inside of me. “Go on to bed. Don’t kiss me, I’m infected.” He smiled at me gently.

I leaned down to kiss his forehead, and then I left.


End file.
